


We'll Always Have Paris

by BiJane



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: (pre-Carmilla and post-AC), Blood Drinking, F/F, Flashbacks, New York City, Nightmares, Paris (City), Post-Season/Series 01, Post-World War II, Pre-Series, Useful Bisexual Peggy, Useless Lesbian Vampire, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:45:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiJane/pseuds/BiJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In World War Two, Carmilla Karnstein escaped the coffin she'd been buried in, and briefly met Peggy Carter.<br/>Years later, as she struggles to make her way without Maman's guidance, she finds her way to New York, and finds Peggy again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. War

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> I think everyone seems to want a Carmilla/Agent Carter crossover. This is my attempt. It started off as a quick oneshot, and somehow became way too long, so it'll be put up as three chapters once I finish edits.  
> Quick note, I use the name 'Elle' because I've always thought that was her name. According to the tags the consensus is Ell, so sorry if that makes it jarring for anyone. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Life in a coffin wasn’t quite as dull as people believed. Carmilla had long since grown used to darkness, to the emptiness. She slept long hours, having long since lost any knowledge of when it was day, and when it was night.

But sometimes, she heard things. Rumbles that bade it through the earth, tremors. She made up stories for each of them, knowing how likely it was she was wrong.

How long had she been in here? Decades, it had to be. Centuries?

Some days (she called them days, she didn’t know) the rumbles were louder. Sometimes they were quieter. Sometimes it was so loud she felt the world was ending, tremors shaking her fragile coffin around her.

Then, one day was louder than ever: and the earth cracked, and searing light came in. Carm covered her eyes with her arm, crying out suddenly.

Vampiric senses were overwhelming at the best of times. Now, she was so used to darkness, to quiet, the feel of air on her skin was like a stampede.

But, freedom. She was free.

Blindly, Carmilla pulled herself up from her coffin of blood, staggering, her legs unused to bearing any weight. She reached out with her left arm, flailing until she found a solid surface.

Warm. Skin: a person. She wished she could bear to lower her right arm, to expose her eyes to the light. Instead, she heard a cry: a terrified scream, and the person near her knocked her arm away.

Right. She must look a sight. Decades immersed in blood would have that effect.

A piercing pain in her chest, and a sudden crack, and Carmilla found herself falling down, back to the ground, the waiting earth.

She was glad it wasn’t quite so easy to kill a vampire: especially for the unprepared, as the people around her must be. It would be a fine fate, if she were freed only to fall immediately after. Still, blissfully, she succumbed to a new kind of void.

* * *

 

Carmilla awoke in darkness. Her hands were bound behind her back, and her ankles tied together. She tugged, a little, testing the rope: it wouldn’t be hard for her to snap. She could feel some fabric bound around her head: a blindfold.

Apparently her captors had noted her sensitivity to light.

She heard a man’s voice; it uttered some gibberish, some language she didn’t know.

“Excuse me?” Carmilla said, impatient.

A pause, then more gibberish.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, or what you’re saying, and I don’t care. Mind letting me go?”

Another pause. She felt someone hit her; immediately, Carmilla reacted, tugging on the rope hard enough to feel it tear apart. In the same motion, she grabbed the wrist she couldn’t see, making a guess for where the owner of it was.

A flurry of gibberish voices as she lunged, pinning him by his neck to the floor.

“I’ve just had an _extremely_ bad few centuries,” she said, “And you could do without pissing me off even more. Got that?”

Voices kept shouting nonsense, and she felt something nudge the small of her back, and the base of her neck. Instinctively, she kicked out, snapping the ropes around her ankles too.

Then, there was a woman’s voice: a shout. The tumult died down, and the woman spoke again in a language familiar to Carmilla:

“Hello?” she said, “Do you understand me?”

“About time,” Carmilla said: sighed. “Yes.”

“Good,” a pause: “Could you let him go? You look tired. I think you’d prefer to talk.”

Tired, oh she had no idea. Just the one lunge had exhausted her, no matter how she acted. Carmilla hadn’t had much opportunity for exercise, for a while.

Slowly, Carmilla pulled back: let go of what she assumed was a neck. She’d normally be able to judge better by scent, but blood had soaked into her pores. She couldn’t smell anything more than she had for the last who-knew how long.

“Thank you,” the woman said. “Now, do you have a name?”

“Mircalla,” she said. She’d almost forgotten her original name, so used to aliases. “You?”

“Peggy Carter,” the woman said. “British army.”

Brits. Right, that would explain the language barrier. It was a relief one of them spoke Austrian-German; well, probably. Her dialect was odd. Carmilla wasn’t sure whether that was due to time, or if she just expected to speak German-German.

Carmilla found her way back to a chair, guided by Peggy. There was a creak as, presumably, Peggy sat down too.

A spatter of English from one of the men apparently also in the room. Carmilla wished her eyes didn’t ache, just from the light that penetrated the rag. Peggy responded in a sharp string of gibberish syllables.

“They think you’re a spy,” Peggy said.

“Spy?” Carmilla said, “Spy for _what_?”

What exactly had been happening? For that matter, what the hell had they used that managed to rend the earth enough to allow her escape?

“It didn’t seem like you’d been around,” Peggy said. “You were buried, right? How long?”

“What year is it?” Carmilla said.

A pause.

“1941,” Peggy said.

“Sixty nine years,” Carmilla said: chuckled at the hesitation. “I’m older than I look.”

“So it seems,” Peggy said, apparently unflappable. “Well, you’ve missed quite a bit, if that’s true.”

“Like?”

“A war.”

“Brits and Austrians?”

“And Germans,” Peggy said, “And French, and Americans,” a sigh. “Most of the world, at this point.”

She should’ve stayed in the ground. Carmilla exhaled, slouching. Almost immediately, there was a reaction from the soldiers watching: some guttural, nervous exclamation.

“You can see why they’re suspicious,” Peggy said. “After Schmidt, we know the Germans are doing experiments, turning humans into weapons: and then a woman pulls herself out of a coffin, speaking German, in the middle of a battlefield.”

Well that was just great. Carmilla rolled her eyes, behind the blindfold. She wouldn’t have minded waiting a couple more years to be released, if this was the case.

“I’ll try not to kill any of you,” Carmilla said.

“Thanks,” Peggy said, apparently amused

An interjection in what was presumably English, from one of the onlookers. A clearly irate Peggy responded in kind.

Listening idly, Carmilla could make out a couple of words. English wasn’t entirely different to her native tongue; one or two words sounded vaguely familiar. Sadly, that didn’t particularly help comprehension, especially when they spoke so quickly.

By the sound of it, there were a dozen or so people in just this room. Apparently Carmilla had scared them a fair bit: she was flattered.

“They want to know what you are,” Peggy said. “Apparently you were shot several times, and here you are.”

“Is there any answer I could give that’d get this over with?” Carmilla said.

“A few,” Peggy said, “Though I doubt you’d like how they end,” she paused.

“Fair enough,” Carmilla chuckled. She found herself warming to Peggy: “Try vampire, though I doubt that’ll help.”

“Like Dracula?” Peggy said.

“Who?”

“Never mind,” Peggy said.

Peggy started talking again in English, addressing the others in the room. Carmilla leaned back, eyes finally beginning to adjust to what light reached her eyes. Maybe she’d actually be able to get the blindfold off sometime.

Then again, they might refuse to allow that. Carmilla didn’t have much experience with the military, and she doubted a handful of whispered stories of her era compared to this one.

“I told them you don’t know,” Peggy said. “Vampire has… unfortunate connotations.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Another break as Peggy conversed in English. Carmilla reached up to loosen her blindfold, curious as to what this woman looked like, when there was a sharp exclamation: someone forced her hands down.

Carmilla exhaled, debating whether or not to lash out again. It was tempting, but probably not worth it. Apparently her blindfold wasn’t intended for her benefit.

Peggy said something else, firm, in English.

“Sorry about that, Mircalla,” she addressed Carmilla, “You rattled a few of them. I should probably congratulate you, they’re a humourless lot.”

A woman soaked in blood rising from the ground would have that effect. Carmilla chuckled to herself; that much hadn’t changed, at least. People were still easily spooked.

“Going to keep me around, then?” Carmilla said.

“Afraid so,” Peggy said. “No one wants an unknown element walking around. I hope that’s ok, I’d really rather this didn’t end in violence.”

“I’ll cope,” Carmilla said. “Decades in a coffin, I can handle a bit more time locked up. At least now I get to stretch my legs.”

Peggy uttered a string of English to the soldiers, yet again. Carmilla heard activity: shuffling. She felt herself be pulled up, and heard Peggy say something again.

Then Peggy led her with her voice, through what Carmilla assumed was some hastily assembled camp. When they reached the cells, Carmilla had her blindfold tugged off, and was pushed inside.

There was no need to try anything just yet. She screwed her eyes shut, blocked out the sunlight, and quickly rolled to the corner of the cell.

She was used to waiting: to doing nothing except lying still, occupied by her own thoughts. To be honest, at that moment, she preferred it. To suddenly be thrust in amongst people again, let alone such a suspicious crew where only one apparently spoke her language, it was overwhelming.

No one tried to speak to her for a while. Carmilla preferred it like that.

It seemed like things had changed: and changed a lot. Some worldwide war, the british army marching near Austria, and she didn’t even want to think about the kind of technology they must have to have freed her.

This wasn’t a world to go rushing into unprepared. Adjusting as eras changed was never her strong suit; she’d always had Maman for that. Key word being _had_.

And that brought back memories of Elle, of being called a monster, and seeing her face- Seventy years.

What had happened to Elle? Not knowing was maybe the worst. She’d spent decades in the coffin, tormented by nightmares, imagining. Now she was free, nothing had changed.

Elle was just as inaccessible, just as lost as ever.

“Are you ok?” Peggy Carter’s voice. “Mircalla?”

Carmilla uncurled, eyes cracking open, to find that, by now, it was night.

Her eyes still ached, as much unused to the feel of air as anything, but it was bearable.

“You’re watching me now?” Carmilla said.

“Apparently,” Peggy said: sat by the front of the cell. Then, distinctly snarkily: “It would obviously be unthinkable to actually have me out there, so I’m on watch duty.”

“You’re not a soldier?”

“Oh, I’m a soldier. I just seem to have had the gall to be a woman too.”

A pause: Carmilla sighed. “Some things haven’t changed, then.”

She found herself regarding Peggy, curiously. She’d formed quite a strong image of the woman from her voice alone; and most of it was wrong.

That being said, looking back, her imagining bore a rather strong resemblance to Elle. Apparently she was still on her mind. It was ironic, really; Carmilla felt sure Elle would have hated this place. Almost as much as she hated Carmilla.

“This is one of the better assignments, admittedly,” Peggy said.

Slowly, Carmilla took in the woman’s appearance. The uniform was striking, clearly military, yet there was a glamour to Peggy she hadn’t expected.

“Not afraid of the big bad vampire?” Carmilla said.

“I doubt you mean us any harm,” Peggy said.

And, Carmilla found, she didn’t. That was something else that had changed, she supposed. She had no need to hunt girls down now.

Well, she had no need to do anything, just yet. There wasn’t much she could do.

“They don’t agree,” Carmilla said, gesturing absently beyond the walls.

“I very rarely care what they think,” Peggy said. “It’s just fear of the unknown.”

“And you’re not scared?”

“Not of that,” Peggy said. “SSR work,” she paused at Carmilla’s blank look: “Strategic Scientific Reserve. Unknown is one thing there’s plenty of.”

Shifting her position, Carmilla squinted. She still couldn’t make out too many sights: not that there was much to see.

She was in some kind of cage: no doubt meant to be a portable prison. The area was fully enclosed, the only door being on the far side of some bars. At the very least, it was better than a coffin. Better company too.

It was a few hours before anything happened. Peggy didn’t seem worried that she’d do anything; they conversed, a little, though there wasn’t too much to talk about.

Soon Peggy started teaching her snippets of English: no more than the basics, but enough that she might be able to get by with the non-multilingual soldiers around.

Carmilla had never really had the opportunity to learn a language. Maman hadn’t been interested in much beyond Austria, and back when she’d been human, it had been rare for her to leave the ground of a certain few estates.

Still, she found she picked up the knack quickly. It would be a while before she was as fluent as Peggy but, with little else to do, Carmilla learned fast.

It was when most of the day had gone, that Peggy managed to arrange for Carmilla to get a shower. It wasn’t much, this base had been hastily constructed, but there would be enough left over water, with how its use was planned, to afford Carmilla a couple of minutes.

The armed escort was more for show: at least, so Peggy said. Apparently they believed bullets wouldn’t hurt her: not entirely true, but she was more robust than a typical human. At least, she had been just after drinking blood.

Less so now, but they didn’t need to know that.

The water was cold, but Carmilla still savoured the feel, and watched as the red flowed off her skin, the water turning crimson as the blood she’d been immersed in for so long began to leave her.

Refreshing was to mild a word. She scrubbed, even if all she had was fingertips, and nails. She’d ruin any rags they provided. It was hard to believe just how pale her skin was, under the grime she’d accumulated.

It was a relief to be rid of the scent, too. As a vampire she should love the smell of blood, but the same tang grew tiresome after a while.

The shower wasn’t allowed to go on for nearly as long as she wanted, but it was long enough. She wrung out her hair, wincing to see there were still a few droplets of red coming out.

Still, she looked far less of a horror show than she had right after emerging from that coffin.

Peggy was still on watch. Still, she jumped a little when Carmilla emerged from the shower.

“You ok?” Carmilla said.

Peggy nodded, quickly: “You don’t look like I expected,” Peggy said.

Unsure whether or not to take that as a compliment, Carmilla quickly dressed. They’d given her new clothes too: the dress she’d worn was not only decades old, but irreparably ruined from immersion in blood.

“Back to my cell?” Carmilla said, as though inviting to a dance. Peggy chuckled.

“Afraid so,” she said. “We’ll be moving on from here in a few days, it’s unlikely they’ll want to bring you with us.”

The days weren’t particularly exciting, but they were infinitely better than suffocating darkness. Peggy sat close to the bars, increasingly casual. If Carmilla had any doubts about Peggy’s prowess, she’d say Peggy was slipping up. An aggressive prisoner could probably reach her through the bars.

Then again, Carmilla had the distinct impression Peggy could probably kick her butt (not that she’d ever admit it aloud). She had no desire to fight, anyway.

Peggy wasn’t the only guard. They worked in shifts. Still, as Peggy was the only one who could understand Carmilla, she was the one Carm saw most frequently, and the one whose company Carmilla definitely preferred.

“So,” Peggy said, in a break from an English lesson, “How did you end up under the ground anyway?”

A pause, and Carmilla looked down.

“I trusted the wrong person,” Carmilla said.

She wasn’t entirely sure if she meant Maman, or Elle. Maman had been the one to find Elle, to tell her just what Carmilla was; but Elle had been the one to listen, and to reject her. Betray her.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Peggy said, as Carmilla’s silence dragged on.

“Not as sorry as me,” Carmilla said.

There wasn’t much else to talk about, until night came. Apparently Carmilla’s sleep schedule had switched while she was buried; that, or exhaustion from being up most of the day had caught up with her. She could work on sleeping properly once she was out.

Peggy remained on watch. Either she’d stolen a few hours of sleep when someone else had been assigned to watch Carm, or she was so certain Carmilla wasn’t a threat, that she was willing to sleep on the job.

Once, Carmilla might have almost been insulted she wasn’t viewed as particularly dangerous. Now, however, it was true. She was weak, out of practise with more or less everything, and she hadn’t had fresh blood for decades.

That, and it was good to have someone who wasn’t scared of her, even knowing what she was. She’d never had that.

Carmilla curled up, choosing the floor over the hard bed, and closed her eyes. Tiredness made sleep come quickly.

_And she was back in darkness. Back in the coffin, banging on the lid and never being heard, screaming and choking on the thick blood, writhing and shaking and beating on every surface available to her._

_She stopped only when dirt started to slip through the cracks, and she realized fully what Maman had done to her. What Elle had done._

_In fluid dream-logic, the moment she realized she was buried, someone opened the coffin lid. Elle’s face, Elle’s beautiful face, contorted with fear, and hate. “Monster.”_

_Maman stood behind Elle; and smiled proudly at her actions, as she’d once smiled for Carmilla. Maman drew her fingertip across Elle’s neck, and Elle didn’t notice._

_Two pairs of cold eyes focused on Carmilla, and two pairs of hands, one pair warm and one so cold, pushed, forcing her back down into the coffin of blood as she wailed, cried out: back into the ground, to scream unheard and to struggle and fail for_ -

“Mircalla,” a voice, “Mircalla!”

Shaken awake, Carmilla jumped, half-expecting Maman to be standing over her.

Instead, it was Peggy. “You were screaming,” she said.

“Bad dream,” Carmilla said: drew her knees closer to her chest, and looked away. “That’s all.”

Carmilla didn’t want to talk about it, not with anyone. If she had the choice, she’d love to forget that any of it had ever happened, but apparently even her dreams wouldn’t let that happen.

Her eyes drifted, unwilling to focus on Peggy. She just knew what Peggy’s expression would be: concern. Pity.

And she saw that the door was open: Peggy had left it ajar, when she’d come in, and awoken her. She really wasn’t scared of Carm.

For a moment, Carmilla was half-tempted to flee. Leave this place behind, and figure something else out. She could get by alone: she’d managed it, sometimes, and now she didn’t need to worry about returning to Maman.

She didn’t move. She told herself it was practicality; she wouldn’t get far, until she had a little time to recover from her ordeal under the ground. She might as well stay: enjoy Peggy’s company.

“Who’s Elle?” Peggy said.

And Carmilla flinched.

“You were saying her name,” Peggy said. “Shouting it, even. Was she the one who buried-”

“No,” Carmilla said, quickly. Paused. “Yes,” another pause. “It’s complicated, ok?”

Peggy shifted: sat up. Unwilling to remain lying down, Carmilla sat too, though she leant against the wall, still shaken.

She’d relived those memories enough times. She’d hoped that, once she’d gotten out of the coffin, they’d have left her too. Apparently not.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Peggy said. “You might find it helps.”

“And what would you know?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” Peggy said. “Nightmares, flashbacks, lashing out, in the aftermath of trauma. I’ve seen it dozens of times, every division I’ve served in. You probably haven’t been in battle, but beyond that…”

Carmilla didn’t talk. She felt momentarily ashamed of her bitterness: Peggy hadn’t deserved it. She just needed to vent, at something.

It had crept up on her. Now she was free, she wanted to use that freedom. Stretch, hit something, do everything she couldn’t in the coffin. Instead she was locked up again, albeit in a more spacious cell.

She just felt angry: and that, she felt, was to do with more than just the cell. She was angry at everything. There hadn’t been an opportunity to feel, when she was buried.

“I’m not going to sit here and say talking’s a miracle cure,” Peggy said. “I very much doubt there _is_ a miracle cure. It helps, though.”

Peggy’s expression hadn’t changed. Carmilla didn’t look at her for any more than a few seconds at a time.

It was silence that made her talk in the end. Peggy waited, not adding anything else; just watching. She made no effort to move for the door, no movement to put herself in a more defensive positon. She just sat, still, and observed Carmilla.

“She betrayed me, ok?” Carmilla said, frustrated at the silence. “I trusted her, and she thinks- thought I was a monster.”

“And she buried you?”

“She told the person who did,” Carmilla said: closed her eyes. “Made sure I was.”

The image of Elle’s face, which had once kissed her, hurling angry words, sent an uncomfortable pang through her. She didn’t know if it was rage, or just pain.

“Who was it?” Peggy said.

“Maman.”

“Your mother?”

“In a manner of speaking,” a low chuckle.

Maman too. They’d danced the night away, in any number of ballrooms. Travelled most of Europe, and Asia, seen almost every sight that could be seen, and several that were beyond any human’s reach.

Maman, who’d said she was her favourite daughter, who’d promised her wonders back when she’d been young and naïve. It was Maman’s face who’d regarded her, utterly coldly, as she was forced into the ground.

The two people she’d loved the most. Carmilla found herself looking away from Peggy, eyes stinging.

Immediately, Peggy was beside her. Carmilla felt like she should hate that. She _never_ cried. Not once, not in all the years before then, next to never before then. Why did her eyes have to act up when she was with someone?

She screwed them shut, tried to act as though her cheeks weren’t wet. It didn’t work: any thoughts she tried to distract herself with inevitably went back to Maman, or to Elle. Her life had contained very little, beyond the two of them.

“It’s over,” Peggy said. Her voice was kinder, now.

It didn’t feel it.

Though, even after that, the door to Carmilla’s cell was kept locked, for appearance’s sake, Peggy wasn’t concerned with security. She saw Carmilla far better than Carm wished she did; she knew Carmilla wouldn’t run.

More than she wanted to admit, Carmilla was scared. The world was new. She’d always been able to adapt, living through the years; now she was just being flung into a new era, unprepared. Alone, like never before.

And, every night, she returned to the coffin in her mind. Watched the two people she’d loved the most bury her, and choked on blood, as if she could breathe again.

During the day, neither Peggy nor Carm acknowledged what happened in the night. Carmilla hated to admit vulnerability.

And, as the days passed, Carmilla considered whether or not she was lucky. Though almost seventy years was a long time, those years had barely been real.

But if that was enough time to move on from Elle, how likely was it she’d fall again so soon?

Carmilla had little experience of love. Being a woman of her tastes, in her time, was far from easy even if she were human. The one person she’d truly felt connected to, that was Elle: and badly was too mild a word for how that had ended.

So Carmilla ignored the possibility. She learnt English, and idly conversed with Peggy Carter, ignoring how much she enjoyed her company. It was too soon to be certain of anything, and Carmilla wasn’t interested in figuring it out.

She heard about the SSR, and how likely it was Peggy would be returning to America after the War, rather than Britain. She heard about some Project Rebirth, whose existence was apparently classified, but was so close to fruition it barely mattered: even if she didn’t trust Carmilla.

Sometimes they spoke in English, entirely. Carmilla’s speech was slow, at first, though she soon learnt to speak faster.

It was more than a week before rumours of moving on spread. Carmilla relaxed more, then. Peggy had said she’d probably be freed, when the base moved on.

Even her nightmares lessened. They didn’t fade completely, but Peggy’s presence alone did wonders. It was hard to be afraid of Elle, of Maman, and the blood-filled coffin in the ground, when she knew Peggy was near.

Elle was long gone, the coffin was shattered, and Maman probably had no inkling she was free. And, just to make sure, Carmilla had decided she was going to get out of Austria at some point.

And Peggy started her shift, one day, afraid.

“Mircalla,” Peggy said, voice low, urgent: “I’ve just heard. We’re moving on, and they don’t want you to come with us.”

“So you said,” Carmilla said, tiredly. “I’ll get the boot, and you can be on your merry way, right?”

“No,” Peggy said. “They’re still afraid of you. They don’t want to risk setting you free.”

And a world of possibility crashed down around Carmilla. She closed her eyes, hating how she’d dared to hope.

“The instant our orders are confirmed,” Peggy said, “They’re going to take you out, and shoot you. If that doesn’t work, I don’t want to think about what they’ll do.”

Carmilla closed her eyes. She was sat, back to the wall, too weary to do a thing. She only looked up when she heard the sound of a key in the lock.

“I’ll say you tricked me,” Peggy said. “They’re scared of you, and underestimate me, enough that this could work. Worst case I’ll be reassigned back to the SSR in America. The nearest village is a couple of hours east, and it’s just after midday. Keep the Sun at your back. I rigged a jeep, in a few minutes it will cause quite the distraction.”

Carmilla listened to Peggy’s hasty words, a little blearily.

“Can you hear me?” Peggy said: pushed the door open. “Mircalla, you need to be ready to run.”

“Love to,” Carmilla said. “Tiny problem. I’m a vampire and it’s been more than a week since I’ve had so much as a drop.”

Peggy froze, and Carmilla could almost picture her running. Just like Elle had. People didn’t deal well with monsters.

Instead, Peggy lowered herself to her knees. A furtive glance over her shoulder, and:

“How much would you need?” Peggy said, eminently practical.

It was a moment before Carmilla realized what Peggy had said. It took more effort than she expected to turn her head up, and she winced at the dizziness the slight motion caused.

Peggy had already undone her jacket, and loosened her top enough to further expose her neck. Carmilla couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

“You’d trust me?” Carmilla said. Her voice came out more as a croak.

“You’ve done nothing to earn my distrust,” Peggy said. “How much?”

“Quarter glass,” Carmilla said.

“How much is _that_?”

“Not much,” Carmilla said.

She wouldn’t need much of a boost to get her going. If the nearest village wasn’t too far away, it shouldn’t be too hard to manage a top up: all she needed was the immediate rush from tasting fresh blood, and the immediate refresh.

Though it had been a surprising length of time since she’d drunk from a human directly; since long before the coffin. Maman had filled wine bottles with it; they’d dined inconspicuously, only the metallic smell in the air giving it away.

“Be quick,” Peggy said.

Before she lowered herself, she pulled a pen-knife from her jacket, and made a small incision just along her neck. She barely reacted, and a few beads of red emerged. Carmilla’s eyes widened at how her body reacted: exposure to fresh blood for the first time in too long.

Peggy lowered her neck, and Carmilla pressed her lips to the cut: lapped the sweet, sweet crimson, and delighted in how it tasted, and the sparks it sent even to her fingertips.

She spared a moment to appreciate Peggy’s thinking: it would be far easier to explain a simple cut from a knife, than a huge bite-mark. Still, it was hard to focus on such details, with nectar sliding down her throat.

Carmilla could have kept going. Oh, she wanted to keep going, to keep tasting: but she restrained herself. Peggy didn’t think she was a monster and, at that time, that was what Carmilla needed to hear the most of all.

She pulled back, panting; a slightly dazed Peggy quickly stood. A moment more, and Carmilla got back to her feet, relieved to find her legs could support her weight.

“Thanks,” Carmilla said. She hesitated, longing to say more, but unable to work out just what it was she wanted to express.

“You can thank me by living,” Peggy said. “Keep the Sun at your back, head east, work out what you want to do,” she paused. “I’d love to talk more when this is all over, but that doesn’t seem likely.”

“Never say never,” Carmilla said: grinned.

Suddenly ecstatic from the energy running through her, energy she hadn’t had in so long, Carmilla nodded a goodbye.

And then she was running. Surprise was her best bet; slip out of the prison, door, and be halfway out of the base before anyone realized what was happening.

Reaching the top speed of which she was capable, she almost managed it. She’d just passed the last of the green tents before the first shot was fired: it missed, and Carmilla leapt, morphing to a panther and fleeing yet more, Peggy Carter’s taste still on her lips.

She had no idea how much distance she put between herself and the base, but when she could no longer hear those terrifying, new weapons, Carmilla slowed; turned.

Content she was alone, she reverted to her human state, and wiped her lips. Looking around, she recalled Peggy’s instruction, and began to wander east.

At first she walked: then, she ran. She was free, for real now. The coffin had been broken, and now there were no bars, no cage. Just air, and the earth beneath her feet.

It felt good to run. Far more exhausting than it should be, she’d need to work on getting back into shape, but it was _good_.

Eventually, Carmilla came to a well-travelled path. It was marked, scarred, with tracks Carmilla didn’t recognize: straight lines, unquestionably artificial. Yet something else that had developed in the decades she’d been buried, joy.

Following the path east, a village started to come into view. Carmilla paused, long before she reached the outskirts. She disliked daylight, and dusk should be coming soon.

If, as Peggy said, it was wartime, no one would be willing to let a stranger into their home. She’d be sleeping rough; still, no worse than the last few years. In view, a short distance from the village, was what looked like a forest: it was to there Carmilla wandered.

It gave her time to think. She climbed quickly to the top of a sturdier tree, and balanced across a couple of branches.

She was free, in more ways than one. Out of the coffin, and out of Maman’s control. She wasn’t expected anywhere, invited anywhere. No one had asked the slightest thing of her.

Total freedom; more than she’d had, even as a human. No etiquette to worry about. It was almost scary. For a few seconds, Carmilla missed Maman; missed having some purpose, no matter what it might be.

But, no. She could find herself some aim.

Carmilla’s eyes drew shut, and she rested on her lofty perch. The cool night-time breeze awoke her, and she descended, to explore the town. It turned out to not be a good choice; soldiers patrolled the village at a late hour, apparently knowing the English were close.

Still, Carmilla’s fluency in German accorded her some trust; feigning an escape from a few brits, and some amnesia borne of injury, she was given board for a couple of days.

She quizzed them on the towns she could remember, pretending memories were starting to return to her. She sensed they enjoyed her company; and she capitalized on that, until she had a general idea of roughly where she was.

Maman hadn’t waited long to bury her. Those memories had an almost dreamlike quality to them, age making them foggy: yet they felt so very recent, as nothing memorable had happened for so very long.

She was near Elle; or near where Elle had been. A quick mental calculation confirmed, to Carmilla, that Maman wasn’t due for eleven more years. It might not be a healthy purpose, but Carmilla had made her choice.

She’d intended to walk, but one of the soldiers had decided to accompany her. It was either a small crush, or they wanted to be sure she wasn’t heading to the English.

Carmilla acted as though it was the former. Whichever it was, it was much more fun to waste time in idle conversation, than spend the journey in silence. She enjoyed the opportunity, too, to experience a modern jeep. Transport had certainly advanced.

“You remember, then?” he said, as he drove.

“Bits and pieces,” Carmilla said. “I remember someone called Elle. My mother, I think. Or aunt. Definitely heard the name.”

Her hand rested over the door of the jeep, fingertips savouring the breeze. She felt like laughing. It had taken a while, but finally she was getting used to what the world had become.

And she was going to have a question answered, hopefully. The memory of Elle had tormented her; but the last she’d seen, Elle had called her a monster, and fled from her.

She’d imagined any number of fates. Sometimes, she fantasized about Elle staying free, no longer wanted. Sometimes she imagined Maman draining Elle dry, sometimes turning Elle to take Carmilla’s place.

Carmilla didn’t expect any good news. She only sought closure.

They were heading to a village near Carmilla’s destination. As soon as they came close, Carmilla shifted in her seat, snaking her arm around the soldier’s head as a play at flirtation. A girlish giggle later, and she smacked his head into the windscreen, the car coming to an abrupt halt as he slumped.

Hastily, Carmilla lapped at the back of his neck, barely acknowledging the taste of blood. She just needed a boost. Then, she searched his body: picked up a pen to write a playful farewell note, and fled the scene.

Before the day was over, she made it to her destination. The village where Elle had lived; though Elle was likely long gone, records were kept.

She managed to get herself a job: waitressing, nothing in particular. She didn’t worry too much about the soldier she’d left behind. It was unlikely he’d be too eager to search after one woman, especially as she’d left him alive.

Even if he did, he probably expected her to have fled the country, rather than making a life in a surprisingly quiet village.

Pretending to be curious about family history, Carmilla looked up old newspapers, records, feeling a thrill whenever she recognized a name.

A week after arriving, she found the missing persons report: a certain Elle had vanished, on the same date Carmilla remembered being buried. It was all the closure Carmilla ever found, and it would have to be enough.

The same fate as all the other girls. Carmilla was almost disappointed. She wanted _more_ for Elle. Somehow, Carmilla didn’t move on. She found herself lingering in that village, as the year dragged on.

It was hard to move on. She recognized some of the village: though much had, of course, changed, there were just enough familiar landmarks to spark nostalgia.

She and Maman had travelled, often. Still, it was always to this area that they’d returned. It was the closest thing to a home Carmilla had known. She knew Maman would be returning here, in about ten years. She had until then to leave.

She’d have to move on in that time, anyway. People would notice she wasn’t aging.

Still, Carmilla found she enjoyed herself. She made friends, knowing she’d have to say goodbye. She even enjoyed waitressing, occasionally twisting the arm of the more loutish soldiers that passed through.

Generally though, the village was out of the way of much of the war. It barely touched them.

1945 came, and the war ended. Carmilla took that as a sign to leave: though it would still be years until Maman returned, it was starting to feel uncomfortably close.

For a while, Carmilla just wandered. She didn’t settle down, merely explored. She crossed borders, to find herself in France, and stowed away on a boat to the United Kingdom.

She hadn’t been there before. Maman had always been superstitious about running water; she’d disliked the notion of sailing. Once in England, however, Carmilla got more use from Peggy’s English lessons.

Her accent caused a little trouble, for those who recognized it as Austrian, but she was used to far worse. She enjoyed her time, however.

The main refuge that accepted her was in a seedier part of London, which she found after much searching. The immigrant community was far less bothered by her native tongue and home, facing similar prejudices of their own.

She spent several more years there, before restlessly moving on. She found herself thinking of Peggy, though she couldn’t say why. A whole world of people, she’d probably never run into that one again.

Then again, she had time. She stowed away on another ship, this one to America, remembering where Peggy said she’d be, when the war ended. General word on the SSR brought her to New York City.

Her English had improved by immersion, so she didn’t stand out quite so much. She had to feign an especial interest when she passed news-stands, to have enough time to read and mentally translate the words.

She’d been in America a few weeks, when she passed a news story declaring in huge letters that some Jack Thompson had dealt with a major threat. It wasn’t he who interested Carmilla; there was a photo of an office, and she recognized the woman just pushed to the side.

Peggy Carter. Surprised by her sudden luck, Carmilla paid for the paper, and hurried to the waitressing job she’d picked up.

She studied the story, as best she could, in any break she had that day. She wasn’t too interested by the columns detailing some ‘Leviathan’, or too captivated by Howard Stark. She’d lived long enough to know such people wouldn’t be remembered for long.

Peggy Carter was barely brought up. She was only mentioned, offhand, towards the end: Howard Stark had chosen to make reparations to the agents involved, including gifting a residence to Peggy Carter, whose cover as an SSR agent had been blown.

So, Carmilla followed up on that. Stark owned an alarming number of houses, but it wasn’t too hard to find a list. Once she worked out which were in or near New York, Carmilla went door to door.

The first was unoccupied. The second was too: the third was occupied by someone who was quite clearly expecting Stark rather than Carmilla. She hurried on, until eventually:

“Yeah, hello?” a woman with a charmingly pronounced twang opened the door.

So used to empty houses, Carmilla jumped a little at the sign of life: took a moment to clear her throat.

“Uh, hi,” Carmilla said: blinked. “I’m looking for Peggy Carter?”

The woman took a step back, turning her head to shout into the house: “English! Someone here for you!”

“If it’s another-” a familiar English accent came from another room, growing quickly clearer as she crossed several rooms.

As soon as she became visible, Peggy froze. Mute, Carmilla lifted a hand: waved, uncertain of how else to react.

It had been a while since she’d had any long term friend. She always moved quickly through places, lest her agelessness reveal itself. Still, even Peggy barely looked different.

It had been, what? Seven years? Eight? It didn’t feel it.

“I, uh, saw you,” Carmilla said: lifted the newspaper, suddenly feeling awkward. “Wanted to let you know I was ok. Say, well, thanks. I guess.”

“Of course,” Peggy said: cleared her throat, moving past shock, and quickly approached the door, “Angie, this is Mir-”

“Carmilla,” Carmilla said. “It’s Carmilla.”

She changed names often. It had felt prudent to not use the same name as she’d used in Europe, and she’d been about due to switch names again.

Still, it was clear Peggy recognized her. Carmilla smiled.


	2. New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmilla finds Angie and Peggy in New York City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now they meet!  
> Here's chapter two, I hope you enjoy. It certainly seems like AC/Carmilla's a popular crossover.

A pause: Peggy inhaled, not even trying to hide her surprise.

“Right,” Peggy said, “Carmilla, this is Angie. Carmilla and I, we met in the war, it-” Peggy paused, her swift tone softening. “I wasn’t sure you’d made it.”

“I always make it,” Carmilla said: grinned.

She felt ecstatic, suddenly. She’d found Peggy, and Peggy remembered her, it seemed. It was only as Angie had called for Peggy, that Carmilla had realized how stupid the whole endeavour might be.

She’d met Peggy, years ago: and yes, she’d cared about Peggy, and yes, Peggy had helped her, but it all happened so long ago. She’d longed to see Peggy again, to have a chance to thank her properly, but Peggy might just have brushed off the recollection as one of many brief acquaintances.

The look in Peggy’s eyes, the shock mingled with relief, confirmed otherwise.

Eventually she had to ignore Peggy’s gaze, and acknowledge Angie’s unrepentant staring.

“She- helped me,” Carmilla said, to Angie. “A lot. A hell of a lot, back in `41. Saved my life, I just wanted to let her know I was fine. And thank her. Never really had a chance to say that.”  
Peggy lifted a hand to her neck, scratching unconsciously. Angie still regarded Carmilla.

“Uh-huh…” Angie said, slowly. “41, so… you were twelve?”

“She’s older than she looks,” Peggy said, at once.

“I’m older than I-” Carmilla said, in the same instant. Her voice faltered as Peggy finished the statement.

Their eyes met, each momentarily uncertain. Carmilla was the one to look away, then jumped as Angie gave a sudden peal of laughter, apparently no longer bothering with suspicion.

“Sure,” she said, “Whatever. I know Peggy is mixed up in some weird stuff. Just promise you’re not looking to kill anyone, k?”

“I promise?” Carmilla said, uncertain.

“Then that’s that,” Angie said: grinned. “English, want to invite your friend to dinner?”

Carmilla wasn’t sure what she’d expected. She’d wanted to find Peggy, to see her: now she was at dinner.

The dining table was abnormally large, like everything in the house (Peggy muttered something about the owner compensating for something), clearly designed for far more people than just the three present. Still, they sat around one end of the large rectangle, Peggy at the head, and paid little attention to the wasted space.

“First off,” Angie said, keenly leaning over to Carmilla; “Any embarrassing stories about Peggy you can share? I mean, she’s told me a lot of things, but she wouldn’t tell me about those.”

Carmilla blinked, momentarily overwhelmed: Peggy chuckled.

“I- There’s not much,” Carmilla said. “I was only around for a week or so, wasn’t much time to…”

She felt that she was being rather too serious. Both Peggy and Angie were beaming, clearly just having fun. She found she couldn’t quite relax, not even around Peggy.

Still, they didn’t notice, or at least didn’t act as though they did. Polite as anything, to their guest, they conversed as dinner cooked.

“Managed to read Dracula yet?” Peggy said.

“No, as a matter of fact. Have heard about it,” Carmilla said. Flatly: “Thanks.”

Peggy smiled to herself: Angie blinked.

“You never read Dracula?” she said, putting on a faux-scandalized tone. “Saw the play of that as a kid, loved it. Really English, you attract the strangest people.”

_You have no idea_. Carmilla muffled her chuckle with a sip of wine; as it hit her taste-buds, she jumped, regarding the drink, surprised. It was a good vintage; Maman always had the taste for luxury, Carmilla had picked up the knack of recognizing good wines.

Stark, she guessed. She’d only heard his name a few times, but enough to know he was ludicrously rich, and perfectly happy to spend that money.

“Good stuff,” she said, putting the glass down.

“Just say if you want the bottle,” Peggy said. “Howard has quite the wine cellar. I doubt even he’s enough of a drunk to get through all of it.”

Curiously, Angie sipped her own glass. Apparently deciding it was nothing special, she shrugged, and put it down.

“So,” Angie said. “Why the mystery? She a spy too?”

“God no,” Carmilla said, “I kept out of it.”

“And yet you met Peggy,” Angie said. Then, at Carmilla’s stare: “What? You live with Peggy, you pick up a few things.”

“Don’t blame me,” Peggy said: Angie laughed.

“Why not? You forgot to help read lines, too,” Angie said, “I’ve got to practise somehow.”

The two shared a smile; Carmilla stared, mystified. After a moment, Peggy rolled her eyes, and turned towards Carmilla. She chuckled at the expression she saw.

“Angie’s an actress,” Peggy said.

“Aspiring,” Angie said.

“Very good actress,” Peggy said, continuing smoothly. “Got an audition for a Sherlock Holmes stage play, day after tomorrow wasn’t it?”

“Who?” Carmilla said.

Angie laughed, louder.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, as Carmilla glanced across to her. “Have to admit, kind of funny though. Haven’t heard of Dracula, Sherlock Holmes… where’ve you been?”

“Distracted,” Carmilla said.

She’d dimly heard the name during her sojourn in London, but catching up on fiction hadn’t really been her priority. She probably wouldn’t have been able to afford much, anyway: Maman had always been the one to deal with money.

From her wealthy childhood, Carmilla had never had to worry about sorting out funds. Maman, instead, worked carefully over her centuries of life, amassing interest on more accounts than Carmilla could keep track of, and selling old, maintained possessions as antiques.

Idly, Carmilla considered that she’d probably have to start with something like that, now. It had been years, she still wasn’t quite used to being alone.

“That’s an understatement,” Angie said. “Living under a rock’s more like it.”

“Not far off,” Carmilla said.

Peggy shot her a surprised look, while Carmilla shrugged. Carm didn’t mind too much if anyone found out. She’d come to learn just how different times were; most people probably wouldn’t react like Elle.

Well, Peggy hadn’t. And it probably helped being told in a kinder way than those thought up by Maman.

“You probably wouldn’t believe it,” Peggy said.

“And watching you guess is fun,” Carmilla said, smirking.

“Hey, I can figure it out,” Angie said. “Especially if you’re expecting English to keep it secret. She’s pretty terrible at that.”

Peggy gave an incredulous laugh: Angie chuckled in response.

It was an odd thing to see. Carmilla had always known Peggy had a life, beyond their relatively brief interaction, and knew Peggy would find friends and people after the war. Still, it was disconcerting to see someone who was, to her, a stranger, so close to Peggy.

For a few seconds, Carmilla felt as though she were intruding. The two of them, Peggy and Angie, didn’t seem to need anyone else.

“So, deserter?” Angie said. Taking the sudden stares as agreement: “Well, clearly German, or Austrian, judging by the accent, but you and Peggy are on good terms, and you stayed out of the war.” Angie adopted a fake, posh accent, grinning: “Elementary, my dear English.”

“She’s not a deserter,” Peggy said, and Angie’s expression dropped.

Carmilla found herself chuckling. Conversation was interrupted by a beep from the kitchen, however; dinner had finished cooking. Peggy was the one who stood up, to get it, leaving Angie and Carmilla to sit and wait.

“Ok, she’s gone,” Angie stage-whispered; “If you really do have any embarrassing stories you didn’t want her to hear, now’s your chance.”

“There’s nothing,” Carmilla said: chuckled. “Honestly. She was perfect.”

Angie sighed: disappointed, but still cheerful. She tutted, just slightly.

“That’s English,” Angie said. “By the way, you don’t mind my guessing game, do you?”

“It’s fine,” Carmilla said. Smirking: “Good luck.”

Another brief break as Peggy returned with three plates. Angie still regarded Carmilla, curiously; apparently considering.

Honestly, Carmilla just found it entertaining. She’d never really had the opportunity to be cavalier with her nature. Now Angie had turned trying to guess it into a game; and Peggy was visibly entertained.

“You’re sure you’re not a spy?” Angie said, as they started to eat.

“Very sure,” Carmilla said.

“Part of the Captain America project?” Angie said.

“Who?”

Peggy glanced down, for a moment: Angie nearly dropped her fork.

“Kidding,” Carmilla said: chuckled. “I’m not that out of touch.”

“Was that a yes?” Angie said.

“No.”

A frustrated grunt. Then, Angie resumed eating.

Carmilla picked at her meal. She was fully capable of eating normal food, she just didn’t always have a huge appetite for it. Still, it was much better than what she usually managed to cook.

“So, just a regular human?” Angie said.

Carmilla paused. It did start to feel like they were getting uncomfortably close to the truth. That hadn’t gone well, with Elle. Carmilla still struggled with that memory.

Then again, Peggy was at the table, knew she was a vampire, and didn’t seem remotely concerned, either with Carmilla, or Angie finding out. Trusting Peggy’s judgement, Carmilla gave a sly smile.

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said.

“O-kay…” Angie said, slowly. “But nothing to do with Cap?”

“Nope.”

“You’re not a robot are you?” Angie said, just as Carmilla took a sip of wine.

Carmilla choked, her laughter sparking a chime from Peggy. Quickly putting her glass down, it was a moment before Carmilla managed to speak.

“No,” she said: inhaled. “No. I’m not a robot.”

Angie seemed almost disappointed. Apparently she was more concerned with novelty value, than safety.

Carmilla found she enjoyed Angie’s company. There was something refreshing about her, whether it was her enthusiasm, or constantly good mood. She could understand why she and Peggy had moved in.

“Ghost?” Angie said, after a couple of minutes.

“Still no,” Carmilla said: snorted.

“Witch?”

“Nope.”

“Super-soldier thingy?”

“No.”

“Robot?”

“You’ve said that,” Carmilla said.

“Just double-checking,” Angie said.

Carmilla’s eyes darted sideways. Peggy was regarding both of them, eating silently, and clearly amused.

Still, Angie paused, after that. There wasn’t much room for conversation as they ate, beyond Angie’s quick additions. That, and Carmilla suspected Peggy was just looking forward to Angie’s next guess.

“Some kind of Frankenstein’s monster?” Angie said.

“Some kind of what?” Carmilla said. “And probably not.”

“Haven’t heard of Shelley either?” Angie said.

“Mir- Carmilla, you’ve got to know that, surely? It predates…” Peggy said, voice trailing off.

Angie glanced towards Peggy, her expression a silent ‘a-ha!’ at Peggy’s unfinished sentence. Still, she seemed just as mystified to what was being spoken of.

“Never reached Austria,” Carmilla said, shrugging.

At this rate, she’d be lucky if she finished the day without a reading list forced onto her.

Taking advantage of a lull in the guesswork, Carmilla started eating again. Just as her fork almost reached her face:

“Are you sure a mad scientist didn’t build you?” Angie said.

Carmilla wasn’t sure whether to be entertained or infuriated, at this point.

“I’m a vampire, ok?!” Carmilla said, half-snapping, before taking her mouthful, and several others. It was a long few seconds before she realized Angie wasn’t reacting.

Slowly, she looked up. For an instant she was afraid the reaction would be the same as Elle’s: she’d lose yet someone else she knew, to an inescapable fact. Instead, however, when she met Angie’s eyes, she saw rather more excitement than fear.

“You’re kidding me,” Angie said, grinning.

“She’s not,” Peggy said. She was chuckling. Idly she lifted one hand, to scratch her neck.

“Are you ok?” Carmilla said, instantly, as she caught sight of Peggy’s scratching.

A blink: Peggy glanced at her hand, and nodded, shrugging. She tilted her head, stretching her neck, and showing that the cut Carmilla had drunk from had barely even scarred. It could have been mistaken for no more than a crease or wrinkle, to anyone who didn’t know what it was.

“Just prickling,” Peggy said. “Think it’s just psychological, seeing you…”

Angie looked between them, her eyes coming to rest on Peggy’s neck, where Peggy had just been scratching. Slowly, her eyes went as wide as saucers.

“You got bitten?” Angie said. “Seriously? Come on English, don’t hold out on me, how many stories like that are you keeping secret?”

“Probably more,” Peggy said. “It can be quite hard to keep track, between the daily werewolf attacks.”

Sarcasm worked well in her accent, Carmilla reflected. Apparently Angie agreed.

Carmilla returned to eating, picking slowly at her meal. She knew not everyone was going to be like Peggy and Angie, but there was something encouraging about how being open about what she was didn’t ruin a friendship, even with a near-stranger like Angie.

Peggy was the one to finish her plate first, having been eating while silently watching Angie and Carmilla. She put down her cutlery not long after Angie spotted she’d been bitten.

“So, where does a vampire live?” Angie said.

“Yorkville,” Carmilla said, “There’s no secret neighbourhood for us.”

“And you’re ok there?” Peggy said, speaking up.

Her mouth full, Carmilla blinked: frowned at Peggy.

“A lot of Germans ended up there after the war,” Peggy said. “Some people are still… bitter, at all Germans. It’s not the safest of places.”

“I’m fine,” Carmilla said. “I can take care of myself.”

“No wonder you like her, English,” Angie said, tone doing the audible equivalent of rolling her eyes. “Don’t suppose you met anyone who could admit they wouldn’t mind a bit of help?”

“They were in short supply,” Peggy said.

“I _don’t_ need help,” Carmilla said. “Rough couple of nights, but vampire, remember?”

“Won’t protect you from a stake,” Angie said. Carmilla blinked.

“I don’t have any problem with meat,” she said.

“Seriously?” Angie said, “S-t-a-k-e, you can’t have missed the invention of stakes.”

“Oh,” Carmilla said. “That makes more sense,” she paused, “Hadn’t heard the word.”

That was the disadvantage with conversing in a second language. There were also more esoteric words or phrases Carmilla wasn’t always familiar with.

“You could always come live here,” Angie said. At how both Peggy and Carmilla blinked, she quickly added: “If that’s ok?”

“I’m happy,” Peggy said, “Would be nice to have an old friend around.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Carmilla said. Angie laughed:

“Believe me, you won’t be,” she said, “More rooms than anyone knows what to do with around here.”

Carmilla wasn’t entirely sure how to react. This was… new. She’d preyed upon people who’d taken her in before, at Maman’s request, but that had been different.

Those people hadn’t known what she was. Peggy and Angie, they did: they knew she was a vampire, and apparently trusted her enough to let her stay under the same roof. Carmilla wasn’t sure if she’d ever get used to that.

“You’re sure?” Carmilla said.

“Absolutely,” Peggy said.

“Ok then,” Carmilla said: smiled. “Guess I’ll stay.”

She liked the prospect. It was far more than she’d expected coming here, but she was still happy. Angie was good company: but, especially, she found she was glad to see Peggy again.

That was how the week was. It might have originally been intended to be a short term move, but soon they didn’t want to say goodbye to Carmilla. She moved her few possessions from Yorkville, with the help of an especially british man called Jarvis, and started to live in the mansion that technically belonged to Howard Stark.

The room, itself, was luxurious. The closest Carmilla had ever had to it was those she’d grown up in; the room itself was rather antiquated, beyond its inherent implication of wealth. Nostalgia was just one reason of many she was enjoying herself.

There was a wide, clear window giving an impressive view of the skyline. Carmilla often had the curtains drawn over them, both to hide the light, and because she preferred the almost regal pattern stitched into them.

Sometimes she was tempted just to curl up and sleep on the carpet. It alone was softer than the mattress she’d had in her old, shared apartment. The bed itself was heavenly: almost too much so.

She felt a pang, recalling the people she’d met in the city who’d had no chance of this luxury. Still, she suppressed the feeling: she was used to such emotions. She’d met countless people over the centuries, who were dying, or wasting their lives, and longed for more time: all the while knowing she possessed that.

Her possessions almost didn’t fit the room. There weren’t many: a couple of souvenirs, a few ragged changes of clothes. She’d lost everything when she was buried, and had no particular urge to restart a collection.

Angie’s auditions could be at odd hours, leaving Carmilla and Peggy to converse often. It was a while before Carmilla found a job nearer the house.

Still, all three of them booked days off together. Peggy arranged for tours of Manhattan, often avoiding the more prominent landmarks, to just see the city. Often, on principle, Angie dragged them through the queues to see the Statue of Liberty or Empire State, and more well-known sights.

Carmilla didn’t seek to see too much. She didn’t yet know the city well enough to determine what it was she wanted to see.

It was Angie, too, who suggested they spend an evening in a jazz club. She’d managed to get into the ensemble of a show with a fair bit of jazz music, so she’d spent quite a bit of time getting to know the genre.

As soon as they set foot onto the street outside, and the upbeat music became audible, Angie’s eyes lit up. She grabbed Peggy by the hand, pulling her in; far more casually, Carmilla followed.

Carmilla wondered if she’d ever get used to how music changed. It had been a problem even before Elle, before any of that: even experiencing the change more gradually, she found she far preferred the genres of her childhood. Only one or two later trends had gained her appreciation.

The three of them sat at a table, near the edge of a clear expanse filled with a small crowd dancing along. Even the band seemed to be made energetic, dancing along enthusiastically to their own music.

“Good place, huh?” Angie said. She lifted her voice a little to be heard. “Heard about it from Kathleen. Best place to get to hear it.”

“This isn’t just your way of working from home, is it?” Peggy said.

“Maybe,” Angie said: “Fun though, huh English? `Sides, if memory serves, you’re really not one to talk about bringing your work home.”

“True,” Peggy said: laughed.

It was Angie who went off to get their drinks. She danced her way around the crowd, to order.

“You don’t look like you’re having fun,” Peggy said, to Carmilla. Carm’s eyebrows rose.

“Not really my music,” Carmilla said. “I’m more one for waltzes.”

“Bit old-fashioned.”

“Hard not to be,” Carmilla said. She lifted a hand; gestured at her teeth, and the fangs she didn’t technically have, but the meaning was clear.

“You do have an excuse,” Peggy said. She was still smiling. “You’ll have to show me your waltz sometime.”

A momentary pause. Carmilla found herself hesitating, fully aware Peggy wouldn’t know just how intimate waltzing was seen to be. This century, this place, seemed far more open with physical contact: a lot of the people in the crowd, strangers all of them, bumped as close to one another as the most loving of couples would, in her day.

Still, even knowing Peggy wasn’t aware of what she was implying, Carmilla felt her heart quickly leap. She disguised her reaction with a glance over to the bar, checking to see Angie coming back. She didn’t want to think about it.

“Sometime,” Carmilla said.

“Whatcha talking about?” Angie said, arriving at the table. She put the drinks down.

“Carmilla was just telling me how she preferred her era’s waltzing,” Peggy said.

Angie adopted a faux-shocked expression, to regard Carmilla. Carmilla took her glass, and drank rather than spoke.

She still felt a little like an outsider, Carmilla reflected. It was nothing to do with Peggy and Angie, they were entirely welcoming, she just couldn’t bring herself to feel at home. Not in this time. Perhaps because of that disconnect, she found she had very little to talk about with Peggy and Angie.

Even now, the two of them were talking animatedly, some subject Carmilla wasn’t familiar with. They always paused when they realized they were getting too caught up, but they couldn’t help it. The two of them just got along.

Carmilla found she missed that.

“You ok, Carm?” Angie said.

Not that Carmilla blamed them. She knew she wasn’t entirely welcoming. It was hard to forget what had happened the last time she’d opened up to someone.

“Fine,” Carmilla said. Angie’s flat stare made it too evident she didn’t believe her.

“That’s it,” Angie said. She drained her glass, and stood up. “We’re dancing. Maybe that’ll cheer you up.”

Angie grabbed Carmilla’s hand, giving her just enough time to finish her drink, before pulling her up to her feet. Carmilla barely managed to steady herself.

Peggy followed, after just a moment, her movement far more dignified. Angie was the first to start dancing, as energetically as the rest of the crowd.

It was a kind of dance Carmilla had barely seen. Far from the formal, ordered and planned waltzes she’d grown up with, it was so very clear Angie was making up her movements as she went along.

When Peggy joined in, dropping her typical formality completely, it was clear she was doing the same. She moved however she wanted to, saw what Angie was doing, and reacted in kind. Each danced alone, yet their movements echoed each other.

Something in Carmilla reacted to just how synchronized the two of them were. She couldn’t say what.

It was always clear that the two of them were close. Now, however, it seemed somehow more apparent. They were smiling, then grinning, then laughing with each other, as much lost in their closeness as they were in the music.

Carmilla didn’t know what to make of that, nor what to make of how she felt. So, instead, she danced.

She tried to mimic their motions, attempting to learn on the spot this whole new style. It didn’t feel like it was going well, but no one was paying any attention to her. That was the saving grace of the night: no one was paying attention to anything beyond themselves, and the upbeat music.

She could almost forget the burning in her chest.

Carmilla danced, and went ever-closer to Angie and Peggy, until the three of them danced in a small triangle. Each grinned, and Carmilla felt somewhat more comfortable.

That night, they went home exhausted, and somewhat tipsy. Angie was humming the last tune they’d heard in the club, tapping her feet on the sidewalk as they found their way back to their house.

It wasn’t long after that Angie’s acting career started to kick off. Both Peggy and Carmilla were supportive, attending every first night, and often many performances in between. There was no clear big break, but she started to get roles far more often than she was rejected, and it was clear by her perpetual smiling she felt a success.

It was 1951 when Angie was out performing, and Carmilla and Peggy at their home. They were reading, taking advantage of Stark’s sizeable library.

Carmilla had finally caved, and was reading through Dracula. She turned the pages with a pen between two fingers, occasionally scrawling a note about some unrealistic trait. Sometimes she just scoffed.

“You knew,” Peggy said, reading herself, “You never did show me what was so good about waltzing.”

Carmilla slipped a bookmark into her book, and put the volume down. She glanced up, curiously.

“Waltzing,” Peggy said. “You always talk about how you prefer it. I keep meaning to ask you to show me.”

“Really?” Carmilla said, surprised. “Why?”

“I’m interested,” Peggy said. She smiled: “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Carmilla said. She stood up; “I may be a little rusty. It’s been a while.”

“I haven’t had a chance to do it before,” Peggy said. “You’ll likely be better than me. I hope you’re a good teacher.”

“We’ll see,” Carmilla said.

Peggy stood, wandering behind the chair to the gramophone that saw little use, beyond Angie’s solo rehearsals. Carmilla picked a record, and Peggy slipped it on. There were a few scratchy seconds, then tinny violins started up.

Almost immediately, Carmilla was taken back to the ballrooms of her youth. The same music, the rather spacious library had a similar feel of luxury to it: and Peggy was every inch the dignified partner she so often had thrust upon her.

Before, Carmilla had enjoyed the dance more than the companionship. She doubted that would be the case this time.

She found herself smiling: and she playfully mimed a curtsy. Carmilla offered her hand: Peggy took it. A step closer.

“Follow my steps,” Carmilla said.

She cast her mind back: recalled dozens of nights spent doing little else, and the so very familiar footwork. A moment’s pause for the music to start a bar, then a step back, a step forward, and she felt centuries younger.

It was a few seconds before Peggy knew enough about Carmilla’s steps to mimic them, and then they were dancing throughout the library. It might not be quite as exhausting as a few more modern dances, but they covered plenty of ground: enough to get slightly out of breath.

And Peggy was smiling. It was hard to not notice that. Carmilla’s initial worry melted away, as she saw Peggy enjoyed this too.

A step closer, until they were face to face. Carmilla faltered: and covered it.

“Want to try a twirl?” Carmilla said.

“Naturally,” Peggy.

Carmilla found herself grinning. She’d missed this.

A count of two, then they joined the waltz again. The music might have been crackly, but to Carmilla it sounded like there was an orchestra in the room. _One two three, one two three…_

She stepped back, raised her arm, and Peggy whirled beneath it, smoothly taking Carmilla’s other had again once the movement was done, chest pressing to Carmilla’s.

A brief pause, an instant’s hesitation: then, in unison, each took a step and continued the dance. Peggy lifted their joined hands, almost daringly: and Carmilla nodded, before being twirled herself under Peggy’s arm.

It was when Carmilla was pulled towards her, that time, that Peggy released her hand: took a step away, grace and dance forgotten. Carmilla quickly turned off the gramophone.

“You ok?” Carmilla said.

A pause. Peggy was looking down; far from shy, apparently she just either didn’t want her face to be see, or didn’t want to see Carmilla’s.

“Peggy?” Carmilla said: a step closer.

“I’m fine,” Peggy said: looked up. “It’s just, a while ago someone promised me a dance. It finally feels like I’ve had it.”

Carmilla hesitated. She didn’t know where to begin in responding to that, or even just in understanding it.

“Thank you,” Peggy said, genuinely.

Peggy looked up, and any bad memories were quickly dispelled as a smile spread across her face. She looked happy. She looked-

Damn it, she looked like Elle. For those few seconds, Elle’s face was all Carmilla could see. But that was stupid, Elle looked nothing like Peggy. But that expression, that gladness, that waltz: all of it was so much like Elle. Or at least, like Elle was before.

“You’re welcome,” Carmilla said.

She wanted to run. Carmilla couldn’t say why, she just couldn’t bear to be in the room for a moment longer. The fond memories of her youth, her human life, had given way to recollections of far more recent tragedies.

She could tell Peggy wanted her to stay: maybe to talk more, maybe to continue the dance. Carmilla wasn’t sure she wanted to know: instead she made a hasty, garbled excuse and fled the library.

1952, and Angie’s career had become an undeniable success. She was bringing more money to the household than anyone: probably enough to support the three of them unaided. As her latest show drew to a close, for once it wasn’t necessary for her to immediately go out seeking auditions: she could afford a brief break.

“Who wants a holiday?” Angie announced, one day, over breakfast. “I could do with one.”

“Me too,” Carmilla said: yawned.

“I’m sure that lounging around is very exhausting,” Peggy said.

“Hey!” Carmilla said, “I do… stuff.”

Not too much stuff, admittedly, since the café she’d waitressed at had been closed down. Still, she’d helped around at the house.

“Why not?” Peggy said, now addressing Angie. “I’m sure SHIELD can do without me for a few weeks.”

“Not from what I’ve heard,” Angie said: “But ok! What do you think of Paris? From all you’ve told me about when you were there, I’ve got to see it.”

“I daresay it’s looking very different to wartime,” Peggy said.

“It was looking good just after the war,” Carmilla said. “I spent a few weeks there.”

“Am I the only one who hasn’t seen Paris?” Angie said.

“Apparently,” Peggy said. “Are you going to change that?”

“Yup,” Angie said: and frowned. “And I bet I’m the only one who hasn’t been on a plane before, right?”

“I haven’t,” Carmilla raised a hand. “Stowed away on a boat. Don’t tell.”

“That’s the least of your secrets,” Peggy said; Carmilla chuckled appreciatively. Then, to Angie: “I’ve been on my share. Commercial flights should be more comfortable than army, though.”

Despite her light-hearted complaining, none of Angie’s excitement had dried up. It would be good away to get away from the city, for once: it wasn’t something they had much opportunity for, between the newly founded SHIELD and Broadway.

“So it’s settled?” Angie said. “We’re going to Paris?”

“You’ve got my vote,” Carmilla said.

Peggy nodded. “Let me sort out a few things, then I’m all yours.”

Back to Europe. Carmilla had spent so much of her life there, yet it still felt strange to be returning. She’d almost forgotten why she’d left.

The friendships she’d struck up with Peggy and Angie had made her forget a lot of things. She still had nightmares of being in the ground, but much more rarely; not nightly as they’d been before. Sometimes she could go whole months without mourning Elle. She’d even stopped fearing Maman quite as much.

There was little awkwardness: both understood she was allowed a few oddities. This wasn’t her time.

Her only regrets were few and far between. She wished she’d lingered after her waltz with Peggy, to see where that would have gone. They’d never had a moment quite like that since.

She wished she’d found Peggy sooner after the war: spent more time with her. She wished she could work out some way to ignore that burning in her chest, every time she saw Angie look at Peggy.

Angie was wonderful: really, she was. Carmilla enjoyed her company, her cheerfulness, yet something just bothered her.

The flight to Paris was terrifying. Carmilla had barely gotten used to cars, and suddenly they were going far faster, and they were _flying_. She held Peggy’s hand, knuckles white, throughout the entire flight.

Angie, for all her excitement and eagerness to see what flying was like, slept through most of the journey.

They’d taken a recommendation from Jarvis on the best hotel to stay at: Angie could afford it, in the wake of her recent success. An ornate building, overlooking a wonderful garden: their room had a balcony, where it was simply heavenly to lie back, and relax.

There was plenty of sightseeing to do, but they’d booked several weeks in Paris. The first few days, they were content to simply laze. That was what holidays were for, after all.

Carmilla did her sightseeing at night. Though she might not have the same aversion to light as Angie’s favourite fictional vampires, bright sunlight could still be unpleasant. She found, too, several cafes they’d have to eat at some day.

The gardens of the hotel, however, those she could explore for hours at a time. Occasionally, she looked up: practised eyes spotting the balcony of their room, and Peggy and Angie out on the balcony. Sometimes they waved down to her, though they didn’t always spot her, especially when it was this dark.

A weary Carmilla was just heading back to the hotel, and up to their room, when she paused.

She’d noticed a lot of things, being in Europe. They were far from Austria, but there was still a surprising number of familiar scents. She’d heard her native language spoken occasionally, by expatriates and locals keeping in practise.

Scents were what stood out to her most, however, and she was suddenly hit by a distinct, familiar one.

“I went to see you, Mircalla,” a voice that brought back so many memories. Carmilla almost collapsed. “It’s wonderful to see you out, again.”

Carmilla reached out a hand: steadied herself on a small stone plinth. She turned.

“Mother,” Carmilla said, flat.


	3. Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really sure what notes to add.   
> The final chapter. Hope you've enjoyed this story!

“Lovely to see you, dear,” her mother said, some steps away.

Carmilla said nothing. She wasn’t sure she could speak. She’d been in Europe how long? So little time, so soon, and years of recovery were immediately replaced by aching fear.

_“Monster!” Her love’s words turned poisonous, as her mother forced her down, down into the choking darkness, never again to see the light of the moon-_

“I did visit you,” Maman said. “Every year, right where I marked the site. Even when those dreadful little humans started fighting over it, I came, every anniversary.”

“What do you want?” Carmilla said. She found her voice was shaking.

“Want?” Maman said. “Why, nothing. I simply wanted to see my glowing girl. I have missed you, you know.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have buried me.”

“Please,” a dismissive shrug, “That was for your own good. You know that as well as I. Heart all aquiver for some pitiful creature. You saw how she reacted to you.”

Carmilla did her best not to flinch. It was amazing how quickly her mood could plummet.

“How did you find me?” Carmilla said, hoarse.

“I told you,” Maman said, absently. “I went to visit you. I’ve known you’ve been out for years now, I asked for a few… friends to let me know if they saw you. It really is good to see you again, dear.”

Carmilla hated that; how reasonable Maman could sound. For centuries she’d found it encouraging: that everything was simple, that she didn’t need to worry. She’d had a lot of time to dwell on her words, though.

False platitudes. Compliments belied by action.

A pause. Carmilla closed her eyes: tried to stop shaking. When she opened them, Maman had not moved: not a step, not an inch. She tilted her head, merely watching Carmilla.

“You’re not going to-” Carmilla said, and caught herself.

She’d meant to ask about Peggy, and Angie: but if Maman had only just arrived, she might not know about them. There was no need to put them in danger. Not like Elle.

“Bury you again?” Maman said, “No dear, I think you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Carmilla tensed. She hadn’t wanted to consider that. Still, Maman’s answer was, hopefully, encouraging. If she could be believed.

“Come now dear,” Maman said: took a step closer. “Let’s go. You’ve wasted quite enough time here, I think.”

Maman reached out; Carmilla snatched her arm back, staggering several steps away. Maman raised her eyebrows.

“No?” Maman said. “We really could do with your help. It’s a ritual year. I’ve left it in the hands of your brother for now, but I’d much rather have you back.”

“No,” Carmilla said. Then, firmer: “No. It sounds like you’ve moved on.”

“Your brother?” Maman said. “Dear, what else would you expect? I couldn’t gather all the sacrifices alone. What’s wrong? You always used to love helping.”

Carmilla wanted to shout. To scream. _You buried me!_ and _You killed her!_ and all manner of profanities. Nothing escaped her throat.

Maman always that effect. She could never say what she wanted to. Often, she couldn’t so much as think, content to take in Maman’s orders and Maman’s hopes, and try to ignore just how much they made her sick.

Carmilla took a step back: away.

“No,” she said, again.

Maman paused, apparently surprised. Her eyes darted upwards, briefly, then settled again on Carmilla.

“You’re certain?” her mother said.

“Yes,” Carmilla said.

“You’ve found something you prefer? My dear, you loved being the hunter,” Maman said. She sounded contemplative.

_And then you buried me, and took her away._

“I’ve had time to think,” Carmilla said. “Re-evaluate.”

“And you’ve decided you’d much rather be alone?” Maman said. “You’ve seen what these people are like. They’ve only gotten worse since you last saw them. That girl, what was her name?”

“Elle.”

“I’d have thought you’d have learnt from her,” Maman said. “They can’t be trusted. They’re a truth away from abandoning you. And look at that little scuffle they’ve just finished with. Six years of bloodshed, for what? I’d have millennia to go before my little ritual amassed quite that much of a body count.”

Maman took a step closer; lifted her hand to Carmilla’s cheek, and brushed a lock of hair away. Carmilla flinched.

The last time Maman had been this close, she’d thought she’d never feel the air again.

“You would choose to live alone, with them, instead of your mother?” Maman spoke.

Carmilla stepped back. She hated how useless she felt, as soon as Maman made her presence known. Even now, refusing Maman felt unthinkable.

Still, her motion was answer enough. Maman lowered her hand, though her expression didn’t alter.

“Very well,” Maman said. “You know where I am, for when you change your mind.”

Maman left. It felt too simple, yet Carmilla watched as her mother turned her back, and simply walked away, barely taking in the garden. After a few, breathless seconds, Carmilla turned herself.

Doing her best to put that encounter out of her mind, Carmilla ascended through the hotel, to return to their room. Peggy and Angie were waiting.

She’d enjoy their company far more.

The sick fear that had clutched her at the sight of Maman faded almost as soon as she was through the door. Unaware of what had happened, both Peggy and Angie were in a good mood.

Carmilla had no desire to spoil that, and it was infectious.

She wandered out through their room, to where Angie and Peggy sat on the balcony. She pulled up a chair of her own, and sat by Peggy, the far side of Angie.

“Look who’s back,” Angie said: leaning forward. “Do you ever sleep?”

“In the mornings,” Carmilla said. “Best way to avoid a lot of daylight.”

“Really?” Angie said; tilted her head. “I didn’t notice.”

“That’s because you’re sleeping until midday,” Peggy said. “Sleeping later than a vampire. Quite a feat, Angie.”

“Shush,” Angie said: chuckled. “It’s a holiday. Besides, I’m a famous actress now,” she fluffed her hair, dramatically. “I need my beauty sleep.”

“You don’t need sleep for that,” Peggy said, idly.

Angie didn’t respond. Carmilla stretched, before resting a little more on her side. She’d seen enough of the view: the gardens, the city of Paris.

Instead, she regarded Peggy. She seemed relaxed, unusually. So often, Peggy was focused: on work, on some operation that demanded all her attention, or that threatened several lives. She was rarely afforded a chance to just breathe.

It was refreshing to see her like this: to see her calm. A slow smile spread across Peggy’s face: Carmilla felt lighter.

That lightness still felt unfamiliar. Carmilla had those butterflies so very often now. Still, it wasn’t the memory of Peggy that she associated them with.

It was Elle. After decades with little else to think about, Elle didn’t leave her mind easily. It still felt recent: and Carmilla knew not to dwell on that high. It didn’t end well.

“You’re staring,” Peggy said.

Carmilla blinked, catching herself.

“I’m hungry,” she said, giving the first excuse for her distraction that came to mind.

In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best thing to say. Peggy jumped, just slightly, lifting her hand to her neck. Angie leaned forward, peering around Peggy.

“Uh…” Peggy said, uncertain.

“Not like that,” Carmilla said, very quickly. “I meant for food. Normal food.”

“Me too, thinking about it,” Angie said. “English?”

“Sure,” Peggy said. “You could always learn enough French to read the menus too, you know. No need to rely on me every time.”

“No fun eating alone,” Angie said. She offered a hand to Peggy: they stood up.

Carmilla lingered where she sat, hesitating. She was drifting off more often now: she felt it. It had started a couple of years ago.

She’d grown so used to thinking her feelings couldn’t be returned. Any feelings. Friendship itself was a miracle: one she was glad of, and she had no desire to press for further blessings and lose what she had. After Elle, Carmilla was used to much of what she felt to be one-sided.

Then there was the waltz, and the first hint that it might not be entirely unrequited. Carmilla had never quite felt so lost.

“Coming, Carmilla?” Peggy said.

“I’ll catch up,” Carmilla said. “I need to make a detour.”

“Right,” Peggy said. “Usual place?”

“Of course.”

Carmilla felt certain she should be happy. The possibility of something mutual; surely that was good?

Instead, she couldn’t think of anything that scared her more. Love ended in a coffin full of blood. She knew Peggy was different, but couldn’t shake the feeling that there couldn’t be a happy ending.

All the more so because Peggy was human. Mortal. She’d aged years while Carmilla had known her: and those years were beginning to show.

As soon as Peggy had left the room, Carmilla stood. Until her mind was clear, she didn’t want to talk to Peggy. Hopefully she’d be prepared by the time she made it to the café.

They’d wait a couple of minutes outside; they were used to Carmilla’s detours. One of the few good things to come out of the war was blood transfusions: there was a blood bank, not too far from the hotel. It was easier to raid a bottle from there, than to assault a passer-by.

She listened keenly: when Peggy’s footsteps had faded, Carmilla left their room, and walked down the hallway the opposite direction. Soon, she’d left the hotel again, and was following familiar streets.

“So that’s why,” her mother’s voice.

Carmilla froze: nearly fell.

“You should be gone,” Carmilla said.

“And leave my favourite daughter alone?” Maman said. “Why would I ever do that?”

“I don’t need your help,” Carmilla said. “I don’t _want_ your help.”

“It seems you do,” Maman said. She shook her head, sounding disappointed: “You’re making the same mistake again, dear. I only want to save you from that.”

Carmilla regarded her mother, and couldn’t bear to move a muscle. _No_.

“I think she said her name was Peggy,” Maman said, offhand. “Peggy and Angie. They’re kind to who they think are tourists in need, if nothing else.”

“Mother-”

“You think you love her,” Maman said, as though she couldn’t think of anything more absurd. “Dear, I told you before. You are diamond: you are beyond them. I saw you, up on that balcony, it’s not healthy.”

The same words as before. They’d long since stopped holding any meaning for Carmilla: she’d repeated them in her head, over and over. Dissected them, discredited them, and in the same breath taken them in.

Stone cannot love flesh. One of Maman’s favourite sayings.

Carmilla barely heard the reprimand. There was a ringing in her ears, a dryness in her throat, a tremor from her spine down to her toes. _The last time…_

“Don’t hurt them,” Carmilla said. Maman raised her eyebrows: Carmilla croaked. “Please.”

“You still care?” Maman said. “Worry for yourself, darling. I can’t protect you from your foolishness forever. Debase yourself with… them,” a hint of venom, “You know it doesn’t end well.”

“Because of you.”

“Me?” Maman lifted a hand to her chest, apparently offended. “Darling, I saved you. That last creature-”

“Elle.”

“She barely hesitated,” Maman said, “As soon as she found out what you were, she stopped caring. Do you think you could have kept that from her forever? Better a temporary coffin than waking up with a stake in your heart.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do,” Maman said. “You should stop pining for her. She’s not worth it, wretched, crawling little thing. She was beneath you, just as the new one is.”

Carmilla hated being powerless. She had been before; she hadn’t known for sure what had happened to Elle, until she’d escaped, decades later, and saw the record of her vanishing. She’d been taken for the sacrifice.

There was no way she could have stopped that. And now, even free, Carmilla felt just as impotent.

“If you’re going to bury me, bury me,” Carmilla said. “Or kill me. Just- don’t hurt them. And stop.”

“Kill you?” Maman said. “I only want what’s best for you. I want you to realize how important you are. How special: not like them.”

A step closer. Carmilla’s feet felt rooted to the ground, no matter how much she might want to flee. Maman took a step closer, and the cool air felt all the colder: the night all the darker.

She could smell blood. Blood and wood, death and dirt. The scent of her burial.

Maman rested a hand on her daughter’s shoulder: met Carmilla’s eyes.

“I won’t do anything,” Maman said. “I don’t need to. I’m sorry, dear. Please, remember I tried to help. Such things only end one way.”

Carmilla had spent years clinging to her every word: relying on her insight, and knowledge. Instinctively, Carmilla believed her, and hated the fact she did with every fibre of her being.

“You’ll leave?” Carmilla said.

“I didn’t say that,” Maman said. “As long as it takes, I’m going to help you.”

“I said I didn’t need-”

“We both know that’s not true,” Maman said.

Maman looked down: sighed. She turned, idly pacing away, before facing Carmilla again. Carmilla wished she could bring herself to move.

“If you’re not going to interfere, then leave,” Carmilla said.

“Is it so wrong to want to watch over you?” Maman said.

“It is if you’re going to-” Carmilla said: gulped. “I’d die before I let you hurt them. Or after you did. That’s all you’d achieve. If you’re not here to kill me, then go.”

Playing the hero. Carmilla wasn’t sure what worried her more: Maman not noticing her bluff, or the possibility it wasn’t a bluff. She had nothing else that might come close to affecting Maman.

“And you wonder why I worry about you?” Maman said. “Dear, you can’t honestly think they’re worth your life. They’re not worthy of the slightest part of you.”

“I don’t agree.”

“You’re wrong,” Maman said.

A flicker of cruelty in her eyes. She always held that they were diamonds, and that humans were insects: and for that moment, she was as firm and unyielding as any rock. Then the sharpness faded, and she gave a laugh that sounded genuine, and that Carmilla knew to be false.

“I don’t want you to be hurt again,” Maman said. “Pining for those squirming, insignificant little creatures… You’re my perfect, diamond girl. I don’t want to see you scratched.”

“Then don’t see me,” Carmilla said. “Go.”

“You don’t mean that,” Maman said, brushing past that statement. “I protected you last time-”

“You killed Elle, and buried me. That’s- That’s not-”

Carmilla was shaking. She hated that; she’d long since learnt to hide any vulnerability. Still, Maman was too good at bringing that weakness out.

“If I’d let that creature get under your skin any more…” Maman said. “You’ll thank me, when you learn.”

A pause. Carmilla’s hands bunched into fists, prepared for a blow she didn’t have the courage to deliver. She closed her eyes, shook, and wished the choking fear would dissipate.

She could feel the wooden walls of the coffin around her.

“Until then dear, I’m staying,” Maman said. “If you don’t want me to find you, I won’t. You can come to me. I’m sorry to do this my darling, but if you won’t believe me, you’ll need to see. They don’t care for you, not really.”

“You’re wrong,” Carmilla said.

She wished she could say more. Instead, she almost found herself trembling: and the traitorous part of her mind that had endured the decades whispered how wise she knew Maman to be.

“Am I?” her mother’s voice was deadly serious, now: no longer playful. “To them, you are and will always be a monster. Who could love a monster? You think they’re fine with it: they’re not. They don’t see you like they see each other. You’re better than they are: in their eyes, that’s something to fear. To hate.”

_Monster_. Maman used the same word Elle had; Carmilla flinched. Bit her lip. Said nothing.

“Find me when you’ve learnt,” Maman said. She sounded disappointed, though her tone lifted somewhat.

Carmilla watched as Maman departed. Quickly, she inhaled, mind racing to try and recall what had been happening. She could never think when her mother was near.

Peggy and Angie. That was right. They were-

Damn it, they were having dinner. Carmilla inhaled again, cool night are reinvigorating her system. Then she began to run, ignoring the blood bank. She could go later; it was too far to bother with, now.

As she, ran, she tried to forget, tried to burn the memories from her mind. She didn’t want to pay any attention to what Maman had to say, but Maman was nothing if not memorable.

Each word was poison, and poison could not be so easily swept away.

A street from the restaurant, Carmilla slowed down, and quickly tidied herself. Smiling, she strode out into the street, trying to act as though nothing had happened.

She’d only worry Peggy and Angie, if they knew. That, and put them in danger; whether from Maman, or because they’d try to go after her. It was useless.

“You’re late,” Peggy said, playfully.

“Took me a while to get in,” Carmilla said: shrugged. “Here now.”

She’d always been good at hiding how shaken she was inside. Still, Peggy’s gaze lingered on her for a few seconds, before they went inside. They were soon shown to a table.

It was almost impressive how quickly her mood could change, Carmilla reflected. It was the people around her. She found it impossible to be near Maman without feeling a chill, without paralysis creeping through every nerve.

Here, however, she could only feel optimism. Peggy had helped her recover from the worst stretch of her long life, and she and Angie had always been there.

Happiness was the only possible reaction. Carmilla just wished it hadn’t been darkened by Maman’s words.

Peggy ordered for the three of them, effortlessly conversing in French.

“That never gets old,” Angie said.

“What doesn’t?” Peggy said.

“You,” Angie said, “Languages. Come on, it is impressive. You should talk French more.”

Peggy chuckled, and uttered a sentence in something that definitely wasn’t English. Though Angie’s expression was mystified, she still seemed entertained.

For her part, Carmilla recognized a couple of words. She’d spent a few weeks in France, just after the war. She’s never been close to fluent, much less years after the immersion, but bits and pieces came back to her.

“You’ve lost me,” Angie said.

“You asked,” Peggy said.

“I know,” Angie said, smiling at Peggy’s amusement: “Still lost.”

“I asked you why I should talk French more,” Peggy said.

Carmilla almost didn’t want to speak. When Peggy and Angie started talking, so often adding anything felt like an interruption. They never complained, but Carmilla far preferred watching the two of them.

“Does there have to be a why, English?” Angie said. “It’s fun, that’s all.”

Peggy responded with another string of French.

“Um, _oui_?” Angie said. Peggy laughed.

Their first course came. Her mother’s words playing on her mind, Carmilla’s eyes wandered as she ate. She took in the restaurant: the indomitable spirit of it. It was clearly damaged, still undergoing repairs, but somehow the cracks and holes didn’t detract from the atmosphere.

A band quietly played, and other patrons conversed. The soft susurrations of their language only added to the experience.

And, after a moment, Carmilla noticed that Angie was watching Peggy. She’d never really noticed just how much Angie did that, before. Then again, when in Peggy’s company, she was often distracted.

Maman had infiltrated those thoughts, however, so Carmilla’s focus was elsewhere. Angie seemed almost enthralled with no more than Peggy eating. A quiet, fond smile, a spark in her gaze, and a carefree expression, as though she felt she was in the clouds.

Carmilla recognized that expression. She knew she’d worn it herself, all too often.

Peggy’s face was not so open. Carmilla had long known she was guarded, especially on such matters. She was unreadable.

But then, Peggy and Angie had years together: longer than Peggy and Carmilla.

For a few seconds, Carmilla felt a familiar burning. Envy: a jealousy quickly extinguished by the cold recollection of Mama’s words.

“Bad meal?” Peggy said. Carmilla blinked, quickly (and gratefully) tugged back to reality.

“Huh?” Carmilla said.

“Your face,” Peggy said, “You didn’t look like you were enjoying it.”

“Just distracted,” Carmilla said. She hurriedly took a few more mouthfuls, as if to make a point. “It’s nice.”

And there, that was concern. Peggy and Angie had longer, but that didn’t mean Peggy couldn’t also... But, no. She was just seeing what she wanted to see: that didn’t make it true.

“Yours?” Carmilla said.

“ _Délicieux_ ,” Peggy said: smiled.

“That one I know,” Angie said, interjecting.

Peggy chuckled, and Carmilla felt a familiar lightness. Quickly, she looked down, for the first time realizing how absurd all of this felt.

It might just be gratitude. She’d never quite managed to put a ‘thank you’ into words with enough depth, for Peggy. Peggy had been there when she’d come out the ground; had helped her survive that transition, and had saved her life. She’d been kinder to Carmilla than the vast majority of people she’d met.

This could just be that.

No. Carmilla had never doubted how she’d felt before. She’d cursed it, yes, and refused to dwell: refused to consider moving on from Elle. Still, she’d always felt certain. And now Maman was here, and everything was…

_Such things only end one way._

No. Carmilla didn’t believe that. Still, Carmilla looked up, and she saw Angie attempting to mimic a French accent, and eliciting a laugh from Peggy, and Carmilla began to doubt yet again.

She liked Angie, too. In a different way, but Angie was still nice. Her optimism usually managed to cheer Carmilla up. Just, unfortunately, not today. This would be so much easier if she could just curse Angie’s name, and could bring herself to hate her.

There was no way Peggy hadn’t noticed the two of them. Peggy was always observant. The fact she hadn’t said anything, that might mean unrequited, or it might mean she was conflicted.

The waiter came, and took their first course away. Carmilla barely reacted, staring at a spot on the wall. She didn’t want to think.

This was Maman. All Maman. She just needed to wait until Maman was gone: she probably wouldn’t follow them to America.

If only it was as simple as it sounded.

“What do you think, Carm?” Angie said. “English or Frenchie? Which is the better name?”

Carmilla blinked, tried to recall the conversation she’d barely heard.

“Stick with English,” Carmilla said. She gave a smile she didn’t feel. “Don’t want you to forget yourself and lose that accent.”

“Good point,” Angie said. “The accent’s important. Don’t lose it, k English?”

“I won’t,” Peggy said: smiled. “As long as you don’t lose yours.”

“Deal,” Angie said. She grinned.

The burning again. Carmilla looked down: tried to ignore it. She’d noticed it before, of course, it was hard not to. It had never lingered before, though. Now she couldn’t help but see it, see how Angie looked at Peggy; and how Peggy looked back.

Then Peggy turned to face Carmilla, and Carmilla jumped.

The main meal came then, however, preventing any queries. She could see concern written in Peggy’s face, and Carmilla wasn’t sure she had answers.

Carmilla wasn’t sure how she made it through that meal. So often she relished Angie’s and Peggy’s company: it was entertaining, it was comfortable, it was safe, it was just _good_.

Somehow her favourite time had become a torture. She was noticing glances she didn’t want to notice. Had they really been so ubiquitous?

As they walked back to the hotel, Carmilla kept her eye out. Thankfully, Maman didn’t seem to be near. Still, that didn’t negate the effect her words had. Normally Carmilla loved talking with Peggy and Angie: now she couldn’t think of a single word to say.

They could tell: Carmilla knew they could. They also knew to not try to force information from her. If she wanted to talk, she would: Carmilla just wasn’t sure she wanted to.

When they got back to the room, Peggy want out to the balcony, to look at the stars. Angie stayed inside with a script, reading. Carmilla sat on the foot of Angie’s bed.

“Something bothering you, Carm?” Angie said. She looked up; her playful tone faded.

There was a lot Carmilla wanted to say. Some of it she knew she never would say. She could be hateful, cruel: scare Angie off. She had too much practise with being unpleasant.

It just wouldn’t be right, though. She liked Angie.

“You love her,” Carmilla said, flatly.

She didn’t know how to feel about that. Maybe annoyed, jealous; or maybe happy. Peggy could have someone.

Carmilla wasn’t sure when she’d stopped considering Peggy being in her future.

Angie flushed: hesitated. “I- I love a lot of people,” Angie said, quickly. It was almost impressive how long she could live with a spy, and still be awful at lying.

“You use a pet name more than her actual name,” Carmilla said. “That’s love. I know what it looks like.”

Angie hesitated, again. She put down her script, and looked at Carmilla, apparently lost for words.

“You noticed?” Angie said. “Do you think she-”

“Of course,” Carmilla said, amused. Angie looked down. “What?”

“If English knows, and she hasn’t-” she shook her head: sighed. “I don’t want to ruin what we have, you know? Met English when things were pretty down, I used to live for when she’d turn up for a coffee.”

“So?” Carmilla said. There was only so much drama she could take.

“If she knows and hasn’t said anything…”

“Then she doesn’t want to make the first move,” Carmilla said.

Angie blinked: regarded her. Carmilla exhaled. She wasn’t sure when she’d decided on this, but it felt best.

She wasn’t right. She didn’t belong here; and that was beginning to feel more and more apparent. If nothing else, she didn’t want Maman to breathe down their necks for the rest of their lives.

She still felt a chill go down her spine: still smelt coffin wood, at the thought of Maman. Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly: she didn’t care. Peggy, human Peggy, couldn’t be in her future. Maman had made that obvious.

Carmilla didn’t believe for one moment Maman was honest, when she’d said he wouldn’t intervene. And-

And why would Peggy choose her? _Monster_ , she thought in Elle’s voice.

“She had a bad experience,” Carmilla said, “Those things are hard to get over. So even if she notices something, she doesn’t want to be the first to risk it. Maybe she doesn’t think it’s safe for someone else to be there. It doesn’t matter. She just needs to hear it, from someone else.”

Carmilla wasn’t entirely certain whether she was talking about Peggy. For Angie, however, she certainly was: she could see Angie’s eyes light up.

Surely that was something?

Carmilla watched as Angie thanked her, leapt to her feet, and hurried out to the balcony. After a few moments, Carmilla stood herself and, silently, went to the door of their hotel room.

She could send them a letter, when she worked out a better story.

Her ears rang, her eyes stung. It was better to focus on that, than on what she was leaving behind. She could be happy with them, in another world. A world without-

“Hello, sweetheart,” Maman’s voice. Of course she was there.

Maman walked closer; linked her arm with Carmilla’s, tugging on the limp limb to walk.

“You understand, now?” Maman said. “You couldn’t be happy with them.”

_Because of you_. Carmilla didn’t talk. She felt numb, passively letting Maman lead her through the hotel, to the exit.

It felt like a mistake, but Carmilla couldn’t think of any alternatives. Maman always won.

She’d tried to play the hero: to stand up to Maman, and this had happened. She’d realized nothing would work: nothing she could do would keep Peggy and Angie from the pain.

She stayed, and what? Peggy wouldn’t choose her. _Monster_. It was only a matter of time before she realized that. Carmilla couldn’t say where her earlier optimism had departed to. That was the best case: Maman could interfere, as well, ensure Carmilla had no home to stay with.

Nothing spared them pain. So, instead, she’d leave them. She’d survived centuries with Maman, she could learn to do so again. It had been fun, before-

Carmilla closed her eyes. Surrender was far easier.

They’d made it outside. Carmilla could feel the wind, see the garden. It felt far less joyful than usual.

With her mother, she walked out through the garden. Maman was talking; Carmilla barely heard. Something about the right choice, the sacrifice awaiting her aid…

Maybe Carmilla would forget, in a few decades. She’d managed to move on from Elle. Somewhat. Well, it was something to hope for.

Carmilla looked back, for a last glimpse of the hotel. Instead, her eyes found the balcony: spotted Peggy and Angie, together. It wasn’t easy to make out details, but their posture spoke for itself.

As she watched, they stepped closer: kissed. Carmilla wondered if a stopped heart could break.

It was hard to understand how she could feel so very happy, and so achingly sad. She was happy for them, certainly: glad Peggy and Angie would actually have each other. Still, jealousy was not so easily dismissed.

She had next to nothing. Memories, the clothes she wore, and a small bag she wouldn’t let Maman take away. Photos of the three of them, an expensive champagne bottle from Stark’s house as a souvenir (she doubted she’d ever drink it), and little else. Still, the bag felt heavy.

Uncertain, she looked back up at the balcony. The two of them: they were happy.

That could have been her.

“Come on dear,” Maman sad: tugged her arm. “It’s quite a way to Silas. We should get started.”

Mute, Carmilla followed.

In another life, maybe. Here, though, monsters didn’t have a chance.


End file.
